UC-NRLF 


TWILIGHT  FALLS 


LLOYD  MIFFLIN 


»« 


BOOKS  BY  LLOYD  MIFFLIN 

THE  HILLS 

PAGE  8X10.      WITH    EIGHT   REPRODUCTIONS   FROM    PEN 
DRAWINGS    BY   THOS.    MORAN.    N.   A, 

PRIVATELY    PRINTED.    1696 

AT  THE  GATES  OF  SONG 

ILLUSTRATED     WITH    TEN     REPRODUCTIONS     IN    HALF 
TONE     AFTER     DRAWINGS     BY    THOS.    MORAN.    N.     A. 
FIRST  AND    SECOND    EDITIONS. 

E8TE8    &    LAURIAT.     BOSTON.    1697 

THIRD     EDITION     REVISED     AND     PRINTED    FROM     NEW 
PLATES.   WITH    PORTRAIT. 

HENRY    FROWDE.    LONDON.    19O1 

THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

WITH    EIGHT   ILLUSTRATIONS    BY  THOS.    MORAN.    N.    A.. 
AND   WITH   TWO   BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

ESTES    &    LAURIAT,    BOSTON.    1896 


ECHOES  OF  GREEK  IDYLS 


HOUGHTON.     MIFFLIN    a    CO..    1899 


THE  FIELDS  OF  DAWN  AND  LATER  SONNETS 

HOUGHTON.     MIFFLIN    a    CO..    19OO 

CASTALIAN  DAYS 

FIFTY   SONNETS,    WITH    PHOTOGRAVURE  PORTRAITS 

HENRY    FROWDE.    LONDON    AND    NEW    YORK.    19O3 

THE  FLEEING  NYMPH  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

SMALL.    MAYNARD    &    CO..    BOSTON.    19O5 

COLLECTED  SONNETS  OF  LLOYD  MIFFLIN 

BEING   A   SELECTION   OF  35O   OF  THE    AUTHOR'S    SON 
NETS.— 2D    EDITION.    1907 

HENRY    FROWDE.    LONDON    AND    NEW    YORK,    19OB 

MY   LADY  OF  DREAM  SMALL.   MAYNARD  a  co..  i9oe 

TOWARD  THE  UPLANDS 

HENRY    FROWDE.    LONDON    AND    NEW    YORK.    19O8 

FLOWER  AND  THORN 

HENRY  FROWDE.  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK.  19O9 

As  TWILIGHT  FALLS 

HENRY  FROWDE.  LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK.  1916 


AS  TWILIGHT  FALLS 


POEMS 


BY 


LLOYD    MIFFLIN 


AUTHOR   OF 


At  the  Gates  of  Song ;   Collected  Sonnets  ; 
Toward  the  Uplands  ;  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 
OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

HUMPHREY  "MILFORD,    PRES'T    AMERICAN    BRANCH 

35    WEST   3 2ND   STREET 
LONDON,    TORONTO,    MELBOURNE   AND   BOMBAY 

MDCCCCXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY 

LLOYD    M I FFL1  N 

ALL.   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


SET  UP  AND  PRINTED  IN   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA,    I8|8 


9 $2  33 1 


PREFACE 

Of  ail  the  Arts  there  is  no  other  comparable  to  the  Art  of 
Literature,  and  the  crown  and  flower  of  Literature  is  Poetry. 

Having  always  thought  the  Sonnet — although  the  least  popular — 
to  be  the  most  distinguished  and  the  most  exalted  of  all  forms  of 
English  verse,  I  have  devoted  my  literary  life  chiefly  to  its  study  and 
creation.  I  have  published  more  than  five  hundred  Sonnets  in  the 
Miltonic,  and  the  true  Guittonian  form — besides  a  few  showing 
structural  innovations — and  I  have  written,  but  not  published,  a 
large  number  of  others. 

The  task  of  creating  this  amount  of  Poetry  couched  in  that  most 
intricate  and  difficult  of  forms  can  be  adequately  appreciated  only  by 
those  who  have  attempted  the  work,  and  who  have  succeeded  in 
doing  it. 

In  this  contribution  to  Sonnet  Literature  over  five  hundred  themes 
have  been  treated. 

The  Sonnets  in  the  present  volume  may  be  considered  a  further 
contribution  to  my  other  books  in  which  poetry  in  this  form  appears  : 
At  The  Gates  of  Song  ;  The  Slopes  of  Helicon  ;  The  Fields  of  Dawn; 
Echoes  of  Greek  Idyls  ;  Castalian  Days  ;  The  Fleeing  Nymph  ;  My 
Lady  of  Dream  ;  Toward  The  Uplands  ;  Flower  and  Thorn ;  and 
mv  Collected  Sonnets. 


"""320 


PREFACE 

In  addition  to  Sonnet  creation,  I  have,  at  intervals,  published 
over  two  hundred  Lyrics,  some  of  which  are  included  in  the  present 
collection. 

This  is  my  Last  Book.  Illness  prevents  me  from  doing  more. 
For  the  work  which  I  have  already  done  the  most  eminent  Literary 
Authorities,  and  the  magazines  and  journals  of  both  this  country  and 
Great  Britain  have  been  exceptionally  generous  in  their  praise  ;  and 
I  feel,  profoundly,  my  indebtedness  to  them.  My  note  has  been  pure, 
and  my  hearers  have  been  appreciative  ;  so  that,  in  this  parting  hour, 
when,  spiritually  reminiscent,  I  dwell  upon  the  years  I  have  passed 
in  close  communion  with  the  Muse,  I  feel  that  my  worship  has  been 
reverential  ;  and  I  exult  in  that  I  have  left  the  sacred  garland  un 
sullied  on  her  brow. 

This  is  my  Triumph — and  my  Pride  ;  it  is  also  both  a  Challenge 
and  an  Invocation  to  those  who  may  follow  me.  And  now  thus  sud 
denly,  and  prematurely,  yet  with  profound  sorrow,  I  at  last  take 
leave  of  that  dear  Spirit — The  Spirit  of  Poetry — which  has  been  my 
Sovereign  Guide  through  so  many  dream-led  years  over  the  mead 
ows  of  Fancy  and  upon  the  Uplands  of  Imagination. 

The  fashions  in  Poetry  change,  but  Youth  with  its  beautiful 
illusions  remains,  and  Love  remains  ;  and  where  these,  lightened  by 
the  Torch  of  Spirituality,  exist,  Poetry  will  abide. 

These  may  not  be  of  the  Present,  but  of  the  Future,  and  to 
these,  and  to  the  Future — that  dawn-lit  Refuge  for  those  who,  like 

myself,  salute  and  withdraw — I  leave  my  work. 

L.  M. 
Norwood 
Stp.  15,  1916 


Cleopatra — What  shall  we  do,  Enobarbus? 
Enobarbus — Think,  and  die. 

— Shakespeare 


DEDICATION 

TO  GEORGE  BROWN  MIFFLIN 

When  they  were  young,  both  your  father  and  mine,  who 
were  relatives,  loved  poetry  and  wrote  it,  and  mine,  in  1 835 
even  published  a  volume  of  Lyrics.  In  you  and  in  me  since 
boyhood  days,  though  we  ha\>e  been  separated  by  distance, 
poetry  has  been  a  passion.  In  me  it  has  been  a  consuming 
flame,  and  in  each  of  us  the  flame  still  burns ; — and  so  to 
you,  Old  Friend,  who  have  been  a  trusted  critic  of  my  poetry 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  and,  through  numerous  letters 
whose  suggestions — poetic,  subtile,  and  singularly  original — 
ha\>e  long  since  placed  me  under  Pierian  obligations,  to  you 
I  now  offer  these  belated  thanks. 

And  let  us,  as  the  twilight  deepens,  fervently  thank  the 
Muse  for  the  exquisite  hours  which  she,  in  her  beneficence 
has  bestowed  upon  us — hours  in  which  she  made  its  oblivious 
of  the  world  whose  material  boundaries  ceased  for  us  to  ex 
ist,  while  enthralled  by  that  laborious  pleasure  which  is  hers ; 
— so  that,  as  I  have  elsewhere  written  : 

"  Time  swept  beneath  us  as  a  flying  road. " 

L.  M. 

Norwood 
September,  15,1916 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  The  Poets I 

Ships  That  Go  Down  on  The  Deep 2 

At  The  Trysting  Place 3 

The  Venice  Of  Our  Youth 4 

June  on  the  Conestoga 5 

Boulders  Of  The  Susquehanna,  Submerged 6 

A  Poet  Passes 7 

When  The  Green  Rye  Waves 8 

October  Days  At  Home 10 

Student  Days  In  Italy II 

Helios 12 

Looking  Again  At  The  Far  Off  Hills 13 

The  Aphrodite  Of  Hans  Schuler 14 

Children  Coming  From  The  Mills 15 

On  The  Headland,  Invasion  Of  Britain 16 

Florence  Nightingale 17 

Reflected  Joy 18 

To  The  Statue,  "Descending  Night" 19 

The  Little  Orchard  On  The  Hill 20 

Welcome  Are  These 21 

The  Lover  By  The  Stream 22 

The  Damming  Of  The  Susquehanna 24 

Mountain  Laurel  As  The  State  Flower 25 

TO  the  Submerged  Rocks — the  Susquehanna 26 

The  Later  Glow 27 

Twilight  By  The  Druid's  Stone 28 

The  Sleeping  Endymion 29 

The  Chosen  Site 30 

Beyond  The  Main 31 

By  Her  Dear  Hand 32 

O  Linger  Yet 33 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

O  Present  Life 34 

Whither 35 

November  Passes 3^ 

The  Little  Ladies  Of  Japan 37 

Avenged 3& 

Water  Cress  in  Paris 39 

A  Winter  Sunset 4° 

Forgotten 41 

After  The  Storm ••-...  42 

A  Man's  Song  From  The  Wintry  Shore   ...••• 43 

The  Morning  Hour  In  New  York 44 

Slowly  The  Splendor  Comes 45 

The  Statue.    The  War  Lord.    The  Dead  Poet 46 

The  Locust  Trees  In  Bloom 47 

Our  Sailors'  Graves 49 

The  Unrevealed 5° 

The  Painting.    The  Lure.    The  Solemnites 51 

The  Last  Song  Of  Ramon  Miravol 52 

The  Drizzling  Day 53 

Starlight  By  The  Sea 54 

At  The  Day's  End 55 

Invitation  to  Winter  in  California 5^ 

Defeated 60 

The  Relentless  One 61 

Imprisoned 62 

An  Evening  At  Lititz 63 

Before  Daybreak 64 

Rembrandt — Hudson-Fulton  Exhibition 65 

The  World's  Transient  Guest 66 

She  Was  A  Breath  Of  Springtime 67 

So  Sang  An  English  Poet 69 

Balboa  In  Panama 7° 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Shadowy  City  Looms 71 

As  Evening  Lowers 74 

A  Song  By  The  Misty  Sea 75 

Then  Death  Replied 76 

A  Wayside  Weed  In  Bloom 77 

Of  An  Aged  Poet 78 

Sappho  to  Phaon  On  The  Lesbian  Headland 79 

Timothy   Cole — Engraver 80 

When  Love  Was  Bora 81 

William  Uhler  Hensel 82 

On  The  Winter  Porch 83 

The  Premonition 84 

Qedmon 85 

Ye  Vengeful  Kings •    • 86 

The  Crimson  Swath •    •    •  87 

The  Belgium  Relief  Campaign 88 

The  Emergency  Aid  Committee 89 

The  WTar  Against  Civilization 90 

Ultimate  Brotherhood 91 

The  Progress  Of  Peace 92 

Midnight  At  The  Tomb  Of  Grant 93 

Landseer's  Painting,  "Peace" 94 

Slaughter  Of  The  Innocent 95 

The  God  Of  Battles 96 

The  Awakening 97 

Insatiate  Monster 98 

Age 99 

Morituri  Salutamus loo 

From  Lyrics  by  J.  H.  M.,  1835 102 


AS  TWILIGHT  FALLS 


TO  THE  POETS 

MEN  named  her  once,  in  far  Hellenic  days, 
The  sacred  Muse,  for  power  was  hers,  divine; 
She  fired  great  Homer's  lips,  and,  'mid  the  kine, 
Laureled  Theocritus,  whose  pipe  still  plays 

On  capes  of  blue  .   .   .  Ah,  Poets,  who  shall  raise 
A  paean  to  the  Muse  in  her  decline? 
How  will  ye  meet,  if  ye  her  claims  resign, 
The  incriminating  splendor  of  her  gaze? 

High  aims  are  yours; — to  clasp  the  spirit  gleams, — 

Mould  them,  immutably,  in  forms  apart; 

Poems  to  weld, — red  from  the  human  heart; 
Annunciation  of  ethereal  themes, 

And  unimagined,  World-fraternal  dreams, — 

Fit  consummation  of  the  poet's  art. 


SHIPS  THAT  GO  DOWN  ON  THE  DEEP 

THEY  sail  away  with  streaming  pennons  brave 
From  sheltered  ports, — a  thousand  ships  a  year; 
Boldly  they  go,  nor  prescience  have,  nor  fear 
Of  fate  that  draws  them  to  an  ocean  grave. 

These  voyagers  no  frantic  prayers  may  save: 

The  wrecks,  adrift,  are  but  their  wandering  bier; 
They  lie,  beyond  the  touch  of  mortal  tear, 
Tombed  in  the  vast  of  the  sepulchral  wave. 

O  eager  Youth!  that,  from  the  harbors  fair, 
Start  for  the  ports  of  Promise  without  fail, 
Will  ye  withstand  the  battering  storm  and  strife, 

And  reach  the  goal?  or,  stricken  with  despair, 
Be, — like  the  doomed  hulks  with  tattered  sail, — 
Whelmed  to  oblivion  on  the  sea  of  Life? 


AT  THE  TRYSTING  PLACE 


THE    LOVER    SPEAKS 

THE  gold  of  Evening   into  grayness  fades; 

And  now  the  Twilight  spreads  her  sheltering  plumes 

And  shields  me  with  her  shades, 

E'en  as  some  brooding  dove's 
Are  folded  o'er  her  nestlings  which  she  loves, 

Far  in  the  forest  glooms. 

The  crescent  dreams  in  branches  of  the  fir, 
And  o'er  the  woodland  path  the  stars  arise 

To  light  the  way  for  her; 

The  wild  grass  rustles  near; 
And  then  a  step, — and  all  my  heaven  is  here, — 

Love,  with  her  longing  eyes! 


J 

THE  VENICE  OF  OUR  YOUTH 

FAR  off  the  City  lies, — her  domes  of  white 
Touched  by  the  rising  sun.     As  some  fair  maid, 
She  blushes  at  her  lover's  kiss,  now  laid 
Upon  her  brow.     Only  a  poet  might 

Conjure  such  sea-throned  vision  of  delight; 
Noise  and  harsh  clangor  do  not  there  invade 
Streets  that  are  silent  as  a  Druid  glade, — 
O  Rose  of  Dawn  and  Lily  of  the  Night! 

And  now  the  evening  gilds  the  gondolier 
Where  the  inverted  City,  mirrored,  floats; 
And  o'er  the  shipping  slowly  climbs  the  moon, 

While  masts  are  motionless  on  all  the  boats, — 
Still  as  the  Lombard-poplars  when  the  air 
Stirs  not  a  ripple  on  the  hushed  Lagoon. 


J 

JUNE   ON   THE    CONESTOGA 

WITHIN  the  shadow  which  the  foliage  throws 
The  drowsing  cattle  by  thy  waters  dream  ; 
The  white  arms  of  the  trees  above  thee  gleam, 
And  on  thy  slopes  the  ripening  harvest  glows; 

From  meadows  of  the  hay  the  fragrance  blows 
Sweeter  than  all  Arabia !  .   .   .  What  a  theme 
For  revery  thou  art,  O  pastoral  stream, 
Idyllic  in  thy  beauty  and  repose  ! 

Nine  arches  hath  thy  bridge  of  classic  mould — 
One  for  each  Muse — clear-mirrored  on  thy  breast; 
Amid  this  quiet  of  the  evening  hours 

Tranquil  thou  flowest  toward  yon  waste  of  gold, 
Where,  shadowed  'gainst  the  fulgence  of  the  West, 
The  stately  College  lifts  her  clustered  towers. 


THE    BOULDERS    OF   THE    SUSQUEHANNA 

SUBMERGED    BY   THE   GREAT   POWER   DAM 
AUGUST, 


WHERE  are  those  guardians  of  the  rushing  stream,  — 
The  river-sculptured  rocks  of  yesterday? 
That  herd  of  Lions,  couchant  for  their  prey, 
Roaring  above  the  freshets,  made  it  seem 

As  if  the  waters  lived  !    .   .   .    Men's  disesteem 
And  Mammon-greed  have  sunk  them  deep  away 
Beneath  a  wide  monotony  of  gray,  — 
Lost  to  the  world  as  some  drowned  poet's  dream! 

Oh,  Thou,  retard  our  fate!  Give  yet  the  thrills, 
The  torrent-shock,  the  impact,  and  the  swirl 
Of  rushing  life,  and  glimpse  of  beckoning  hills! 

Sink  us  not  yet!   lovers  of  sky  and  sun, 
We  graying  men,  who  crave  awhile  the  whirl 
And  rapture  of  the  rapids  as  they  run! 


A     POET     PASSES 

THE  Shadow  brooded  o'er  him,  as  he  lay 
Waiting  the  end;  but  far  beyond  the  gloom 
He  saw  the  clustered  domes  with  glory  dim 
In  air-built  citadels.     Celestial  slopes 

Beamed  with  lost  faces,  found;  and  tides  of  song 
Swept  from  the  morning  stars,  as  faint  he  saw 
A  shadowy  Form  move  to  him,  down  a  path 
Filled  with  excessive  light;  then  softly  came 

The  Presence,  veiled,  and  called  him,  and  consoled: 
As  when  our  noon-day  sun,  breaking  through  clouds, 
Beats  on  a  glaring  plain  of  burnished  snow, 

And  from  his  wake  of  blazing  silver  pours 
Unearthly  splendor,  so,  in  brighter  light, 
He  saw  Death  moving  to  him  on  the  gleam. 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  RYE  WAVES 

WHEN  the  rye  is  tall  as  Marian's  head 

By  the  path  as  she  comes  to  me, 
And  the  rose  in  her  hair — the  rose  of  red — 

Is  laved  by  the  bearded  sea, 
It  is  then  to  the  trysting  place  we  hie 

Where  the  gray-green  billows  go  over  the  rye 

There  are  deeper  joys — the  lure  of  her  eyes — 
And  the  warmth  of  her  loving  kiss, 

But  after  the  rapture — after  the  sighs, 
A  lingering  pleasure  is  this, 

In  the  shade  at  her  darling  feet  to  lie 
As  the  rolling  billows  go  over  the  rye. 


WHEN   THE    GREEN    RYE   WAVES 


THO'  the  white  cloud  calls,  yet  the  sea  of  green 

With  its  wonderful  waves  is  fair; 
Tho'  the  red-wing  hovers  o'er  head  to  feign 

That  his  nest  in  the  grass  is  there, 
Yet  our  hearts  are  set  on  the  lights  that  fly 

O'er  the  magical  reach  of  the  waves  of  rye. 


And  I  ask  will  she  follow  me  clear  of  the  Day 

Out  over  that  ocean  of  green, 
To  an  isle  that  basks  in  the  Far-Away, 

That  only  lovers  have  seen, 
And  deep  in  her  eyes  is  the  sweet  reply 

As  we  drift  afar  o'er  the  sea  of  rye. 


y 


OCTOBER  DAYS  AT  HOME 

RESTLESS  and  strange,  the  birds  now  dream  of  flight 
To  far  savannas,  as  the  partridge  whirs 
From  briery  uplands  near.      With  chestnut  burrs 
The  squirrels  are  busy,  leaping  in  delight 

From  limb  to  limb,  where  jays  at  dizzy  height, 
Shrill  their  harsh  challenge,  while  the  zenith  blurs 
The  swift-winged  geese, — aerial  voyagers, — 
Arrowing  aloft  to  lose  themselves  in  light. 

In  Indian-file  the  turkey  leads  her  brood, 

Eying  the  hawk  above.     From  hollow  boughs 
The  tapping  flicker  darts  on  golden  wings ; 

The  red-bird  long  has  sought  the  deeper  wood, 
While  from  the  elm,  anear  the  olden  house, 
The  oriole's  woven  cradle  empty  swings. 


10 


STUDENT-DAYS  IN  ITALY— A  RESTROSPECT 

THE  Evening  gilds  the  church-dome  far  away 
High  on  the  hills.     The  sun  is  almost  set, 
And  Alban  mountain-tops  are  roseate  yet 
With  vernal  snow. — Stretched  far  in  long  array, 

Behold  the  toilers  at  the  end  of  day, 
Where  slowly  coming,  tired  and  labor-bowed, 
One  sees  them  dimly  in  a  rising  cloud 
Of  golden  dust  along  the  Appian  Way. 

In  field  apart,  responsive,  mate  to  mate, 
Lone  contadini  sing  below  the  pine; 
The  panniered  donkeys,  orange-laden,  wait 

Beside  the  Trattoria  'neath  the  vine, 

And  there  the  artist-travelers,  now  elate, 
Chat  o'er  their  Parmesan  and  Astilwine. 


11 


HELIOS 

MY  chariot-team,  whirled  on  by  flaming  wings, 
Beats  the  dawn-vapor  into  flakes  of  fire ; 
My  rays  made  Memnon  murmur  as  a  lyre: 
Barbarian  hosts  and  their  imperious  Kings 

Knelt  by  mine  altars  with  burnt-offerings: 
Shrouded  in  scarlet  and  in  gold  attire 
Each  eve  I  perish  on  my  sumptuous  pyre, 
Yet  every  morn  my  bright  renascence  brings. 

Innumerous  orbs  illume  the  rolling  Earth 

When  I,  at  dusk,  withdraw  from  view  of  men, 
But  star  and  planet  never  meet  my  sight : 

I  am  that  Splendor  of  primeval  birth 
Which  flushed  the  yawn  of  Chaos,  and  since  then 
For  me — till  systems  crash — there  is  no  Night. 


12 


LOOKING  AGAIN  AT  THE  FAR-OFF  HILLS 

WITH  falcon-wings  have  flown  the  two  score  years 
Since  here  I  trod  the  heights,  yet  now  I  gaze 
Entranced,  for  that  blue  loveliness  betrays 
No  age, — like  some  perpetual  Bride  who  bears 

Unfading  wreaths  of  bloom,  it  yearly  wears 
Fresh  garlands  woven  of  cerulean  haze; 
These  dreamy  hills,  well  loved  in  happier  days, 
Seem  even  lovelier  as  my  twilight  nears. 

Tense  life  hath  taken  her  relentless  toll, 
For  to  myself  I  turn,  and  see  the  truth 
Furrowed  upon  my  brow,  and  in  the  soul 

Deep  scars;  corrosive  time  hath  wrought  the  change; 
And  yet  yon  blue,  insensate,  mountain-range 
Defies  mutation  with  perennial  youth. 


13 


THE   APHRODITE   OF    HANS    SCHULER 

O  POET-SCULPTOR  of  Hellenic  themes 

Who  wanderest  through  the  dim  Italian  vales, 
Thy  marbles  wing  us  to  immortal  dales 
Where  gods  recline  by  amaranthine  streams. 

Honor  to  him,  who,  by  marmorean  dreams 
So  carven  that  the  ancient  prestige  pales, 
Lifts  us  from  out  the  sordid,  and  regales 
The  famished  spirit  with  diviner  gleams. 

Mother  of  Love! — nay,  Love  itself  thou  art; 

Born  of  the  Sea, — sea-flower  of  fire  and  foam; 

Wave-pillowed  head  ;    the  sweet  breast  dolphin- 
tossed; 
Thy  loveliness — a  pang  that  pierces  home! 

Oh,  poignant  is  thy  beauty,  for  the  heart 

Sees  what  it  yearned  for  and  forever  lost! 


14 


THE  CHILDREN  COMING  FROM  THE  MILLS 

THE  troop  of  children  that  should  be  at  play 

Romping  through  upland  fields  from  morn  to  eve, 
Or  studious  at  the  schools, — can  we  believe 
Them  slaves,  thralls  of  the  soulless  looms  that  slay? 

Shall  young  life  have  no  sun? — no  holiday? 
But,  standing  at  the  shuttle,  endless  weave, 
Straining  for  others  still  without  reprieve, 
Strangers  to  joy — wearing  their  prime  away? 

Now  youth's  fair  flower  is  trampled  as  a  weed, 
And  pallid  children  show  the  care-worn  face, — 
That  index  of  a  future  stunted  race: 

The  whirring  shuttles  suck  the  toilers'  blood; 
Youths  left  emaciate  by  the  cogs  of  Greed, 
And  budding  Maidens  marred  for  motherhood. 


15 


ON   THE   HEADLANDS 

THE   INVASION    OF   BRITAIN,    UNDER    BOADICEA, 
BY   SUETONIUS,     62    A.D. 

THROUGH  twilight  mist  the  West,  with  lurid  red, 
Flushed  all  the  uplands.     There,  in  trance  I  stood 
And  watched  the  Vision,  saw  the  ensanguined  feud 
Rage  on  the  summits,  whence  was  heard  the  tread 

Of  conquerors  coming  and  of  captives  led, 
And  moanings  of  a  mangled  multitude, 
Where,  'mid  the  carnage  on  that  field  of  blood, 
I  saw  the  Warrior  Queen  uncharioted. 

The  Sea,  remembering,  sobbed  around  her  capes 
Where  ghostly  Kings,  bewildered  at  their  doom, 
Sought  the  lost  sceptre  and  the  crumbled  throne: 

Then,  in  the  air,  triumphant  spectral-shapes 
Arthurian,  passed  in  panoply  and  plume, 
Led  by  the  phantom-trumpets,  faintly  blown. 


16 


FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE 

ANGEL  and  woman,  nearing  ninety  years, 
We  lay  this  amaranth  flower  at  her  feet, — 
The  wide  world's  love, — a  tribute  richly  meet, 
For  mid  the  cannons'  carnage  and  the  spears' 

She  moved  heroic,  and  the  soul  reveres 
Her  saintly  ministrations,  heavenly  sweet; 
Science  to  love  she  joined,  and  did  entreat 
Death  back  to  life,  and  checked  a  million  tears. 

At  Balaklava,  through  the  dreadful  camp 
Miles  long  of  maimed  men,  her  lot  was  cast 
Through  shrieking,  bleeding  wrecks  of  sword  and  ball; 

And  in  night  hospitals,  as  on  she  passed, 

The  wounded  blessed  our  "Lady  of  the  Lamp,"  — 
The  dying  kissed  her  shadow  on  the  wall. 


17 


REFLECTED   JOY 

To  LOOK  on  happiness  through  others'  eyes," 
So  mused  I,  not  without  a  secret  pain, 
For  lovers  passed  me  in  the  twilight  lane, 
As  arm  in  arm  they  murmured  soft  replies. 

How  sweetly  Love  can  gild  the  winsome  lies 
Whispered  in  Youth!    But  oh!  to  us  in  vain 
Fie  calls,  if  in  our  heart  that  barb  remain, — 
''To  look  on  happiness  through  others'  eyes." 

Joy  is  a  jewel-casket  locked  to  Age, 

Youth  and  Love  only  have  the  golden  key; 
Bliss  is  a  bubble,  bursting  as  it  flies: 

Now  evening  comes,  and  what  is  left  to  me? 
This  is  the  pathos  of  life's  pilgrimage, — 
"To  look  on  happiness  through  others'  eyes." 


18 


TO     THE     STATUE 
"DESCENDING  NIGHT" 

I  LOVED  the  Day,  but  now  the  dim  Night  clings 
Close  to  my  soul.     Lo,  through  the  evening  air 
Night  comes, — naked  and  pure — divinely  fair — 
Slow-floating  downward  on  those  brooding  wings! 

She  is  the  Dove  of  Darkness,  and  she  brings 
The  olive,  Peace,  into  the  Tents  of  Care; 
Oh,  let  the  raven  mystery  of  her  hair 
Enshroud  me  with  occult  imaginings! 

O  Night,  if  thou  art  beautiful  as  this,, 

Let  thine  arms  fold  me  till  my  passing  breath 
Dies  into  dreams  wherein  the  Spirit  rests: 

Numb  me  with  rapture  of  thy  Lethean  kiss; 

Lean  close  above  me, — touch  me  with  thy  breasts, 
Make  me  thy  bridegroom  in  the  Halls  of  Death. 


19 


THE   LITTLE    ORCHARD    ON   THE    HILL 

COULD  any  slope  be  lovelier,  e'en  in  May, 
Than  this,  bedecked  in  peach-bloom,  where  is  seen 
The  clustered  pink  against  a  floor  of  green, 
As  if  the  hill  were  one  superb  bouquet? 

Faint  airs  of  Persia  linger  in  each  spray; 

Here  Beauty,  reigning  in  this  rare  demesne, 
Trails  her  rich  garments  like  an  orient  queen, 
All  roseate  as  the  clouds  at  dawn  of  day: 

But  when  the  lithe  boughs,  laden  to  the  tips 
With  golden  ovals  pulped  with  luscious  mell, — 
When  crimsoned  globes  invite  the  eager  lips 

With  fruity  honey,  then,  across  the  years, 
The  Eden  Gardener,  wheresoe'r  he  dwell, 
Must  look  with  longing  on  the  nectared  spheres! 


20 


WELCOME  ARE  THESE 


WELCOME  to  us  such  harbingers  as  these: 
The  murmur  of  the  honey-laden  bees; 
Welcome  the  warbled  song  and  myriad  wing 

In  Dryad  woodlands  gemmed  by  April  rain; 
The  dove's  soft  moan  of  joy;  the  slope  that  glows 

When  laurel-blossoms  make  each  bush  a  rose: 
Ah!  dear  to  us  and  tragic  is  the  Spring — 
The  Spring  that  we  shall  seldom  greet  again! 


21 


THE  LOVER  BY  THE  STREAM 

O  PURLING  waters  from  yon  mountain  woods, 
Wind  through  the  meadow  on  these  summer  days, 
Curve,  and  re-curve,  in  seeming  senseless  maze 

That  few  may  understand, 

But  when  rude  March  shall  bring  the  rushing  floods 
Thy  bends  shall  block  the  tide 

Of  devastation  wide, 
And  save  the  fertile  land: 
Curve,  silver  stream  and  save  the  meadow  land! 

Here  oft  a  maiden  comes  at  eventide 
To  call  the  cattle  from  the  pasture  deep: 
If  one  should  'neath  her  modest  wimple  peep, — 

If  one  should  touch  her  hand, 
Let  down  the  bars,  and  linger  by  her  side, 

Would  such  things  do  her  wrong  ? 
O  curve,  and  wind  along, 

And  carol  o'er  the  sand, — 
Wind,  happy  stream,  and  save  her  father's  land! 

22 


THE    LOVER    BY   THE   STREAM 

We  stroll  along  the  margin  in  a  dream, — 
Was  ever  farmer's  daughter  half  so  fair  ? 
And  in  the  twilight  of  the  lilied  wier 

We  loiter,  hand-in-hand. 
O  straighten  not  the  windings,  dreamful  stream, 

For  I  should  then  have  less 
Of  her  shy  loveliness  : 

Wind  on  o'er  pebbly  sand, — 
Bend,  lyric  stream,  and  save  her  father's  land! 

Her  grizzled  parent  stroked  his  beard  and  said, — 
"Meadow  and  cottage  shall  be  hers  in  Spring, — " 
For  April  blooms  shall  bear  a  marriage  ring 

For  some  one's  pretty  hand  ! 
O  winding  stream  remember  when  we'  re  wed, 

Sing  ever  'round  her  feet, 
And  keep  her  pure  and  sweet, 

As  is  thy  golden  sand; 
Wind,  darling  stream,  and  save  her  bridal  land! 


23 


TO  PENNSYLVANIANS  ON  THE  DAMMING 
OF  THE  SUSQUEHANNA 

SHALL  your  true  birth-right  in  this  stream  be  sold? 

Your  River  dammed,  by  stealth,  as  in  the  night? 

And  yet  no  protest  made?    no  sign  of  fight? 

Cowards!    The  Trappers  would  have  risen  of  old 
In  their  primeval  manhood, — they  were  bold, — 

They  would  have  bled  for  this  riparian  right ; 

But  you,  though  weaponed  with  the  ballot's  might 

Tamely   submit — sheep  sheared  within  the  fold! 
If  men  are  craven,  as  they  seem  to  be, 

Submitting  to  such  robbery  at  their  door, 

Thou  mighty  Stream!    alone  vent  thou  thy  wrath: 
Rise!    till  a  thousand  torrents  thundering  roar 

Headlong,  and  in  thy  wild,  avenging  path, 

Sweep  this  abomination  to  the  sea! 


24 


THE  MOUNTAIN  LAUREL  AS  THE  STATE 
FLOWER  FOR  PENNSYLVANIA 

SEARCH  all  the  gardens,  every  reedy  fen, 
Upland  and  meadow  where  wild  nature  teems, 
The  tangled  thicket  where  the  torrent  gleams 
In  thunderous  foam  adown  the  forest  glen, 

And  thou  shalt  find  no  flowering  denizen 
Equal  our  Kalmia,  robed  in  rosiest  white, 
Whose  beauty  is  a  pang  of  pure  delight, 
Touching,  through  loveliness,  the  heart  of  men. 

Unfading  Laurel!    symbol  of  our  hopes, 
Immortal  Dryad  of  the  greenwood  gloom, 
Long  mayst  thou  haunt  these  Appalachian  slopes 

And  be  our  sovereign  State's  resplendent  Flower, 
Beauteous  as  morning  in  thy  roseate  bloom, 
Strong  as  our  mountains  in  enduring  power ! 


25 


TO  THE  SUBMERGED  ROCKS  AND  ISLANDS 
ON  THE  SUSQUEHANNA 

FAREWELL!  ye  wooded  islands,  never  more 

Shall  in  your  shade  the  Youth  and  Maiden  woo! 
Ye  rocks,  that  jutted  from  the  rushing  blue, 
Within  whose  eddies  dripped  the  lover's  oar, 

A  last  farewell!  Ye  currents  that  of  yore 

Like  maddened  horses  furious  dashed,  and  threw 
Your  white  manes  to  the  air,  farewell  to  you! 
Forever  mute  your  danger-luring  roar! 

Here,  as  I  drift,  no  rapture  doth  awake 

From  hills  or  moving  landscape,  for  my  heart 
Lingers  beneath  where  I  was  wont  to  roam; 

And  memory  sees,  as  on  some  sunken  chart, 
Down  in  that  inert  bottom  of  the  lake, 
The  scarred  old  boulders  yearning  for  the  foam! 


THE  LATER  GLOW 

THE  mind  should  ripen  with  the  mellowing  years, 
E'en  as  an  Autumn  tree.     The  evening  sail 
Gathers  the  glow.     Quest  of  the  Holy  Grail 
Is  not  for  youth,  untried  by  love  and  tears. 

Death's  cataract  roars,  but  still  the  poet  hears 
Not  Death's  voice,  but  a  voice  beyond  the  veil; 
The  gray  wings  of  the  Spirit  do  not  quail, 
But  throb  for  finer  ether  of  the  Spheres. 

Shall  coming  age  deflower  me  by  disuse  ? 
Ah  no!    e'en  as  the  rich  exotic  rose 
Flames  Winter  into  June,  so  shall  the  Muse 

Beneficent,  my  season  still  prolong, — 
And  glowing  on  my  wintry  days,  disclose 
A  later  blooming  of  the  flower  of  Song. 


27 


TWILIGHT  BY  THE  DRUID'S  STONE 

DAY'S  heart  was  stabbed,  and  now  the  stain  of  red 
Smote  on  the  promontory  as  a  flood, 
Bathing  the  moorland  in  the  misty  blood 
Of  sunset.     Through  the  dusk  I  heard  the  tread 

Of  hoary  Druids,  who  the  victim  led 
To  reeking  altars  in  the  ghostly  wood; 
And  all  the  weird  and  tremulant  solitude 
Was  thronged  with  visions  of  the  ancient  dead. 

There  Priests  I  saw,  white-robed,  at  mid  of  night, 
Sever  the  mistletoe  with  blade  of  gold; 
These  wore  the  "serpent's  egg,"  assign  of  might, 

Made  of  the  poisonous  spittle  of  the  snake; 
And  some,  the  outcasts,  unto  whom  none  spake, 
Wandered,  forever  silent,  near  the  fold. 


28 


THE  SLEEPING  ENDYMION 

RINEHART'S    STATUE   OVER    HIS    OWN    GRAVE 

THE  moonlight,  as  a  lover's  lingering  kiss 
Falls  on  his  placid  brow.      In  tender  gloom 
The  young,  brown  body  glimmers  from  the  tomb — 
Dim  as  a  fading  star  .   .   .   Rest — rest  it  is  ; 

And  oh,  if  sleep  be  beautiful  as  this 

What  must  the  waking  be!  .   .   .   No  cares  consume; 
With  him  is  youth  eterne,  undying  bloom, 
And  thoughts  unending  of  perennial  bliss. 

The  lips  are  parting,  and  we  feel  the  breath 
A  sweetness  on  the  air  ...  Will  he  arise 
And  touch  again  his  Dorian  flute  ?  He  seems 

Some  fair  immortal  form  of  alien  skies 
Abiding  here, — a  symbol,  not  of  Death, 
But  Sleep  irradiate  with  desired  dreams. 


29 


THE  CHOSEN  SITE 

NOT  on  the  headland  cliff  above  the  sea, 
Enforced  to  hear  the  sullen  lion-roar 
Of  caverend  waves:    not  on  the  languid  shore 
Where  the  palm-fringed  sands  reach  endlessly 

Teased  by  the  foam:    not  where  the  stunted  tree 
Grapples  the  barren  crag,  while  torrents  pour 
Their  veils  of  mist,  and  mountain  eagles  soar: 
Not  e'en  a  heathery  moorland  home  for  me! 

But  by  the  bouldered  streamlet's  lyric  flow, 
Be  my  abode,  whence,  to  the  beetling  crest, 
Infrequently  at  sunset  I  may  stroll 

To  hear  the  hill-top  phantom  bugles  blow, 
And,  for  the  moment,  balm  the  troubled  soul 
With  unaccustomed  splendors  of  the  West. 


30 


BEYOND  THE  MAIN 

I  CLOSE  my  eyes,  and  from  the  hills  of  home 

View  Italy  again:    the  fallen  frieze; 

The  templed  vales  and  haunts  of  Dryades; 

The  vast  campagna  and  the  looming  dome; 
The  wraith  that  lingers  o'er  a  vanished  Rome, — 

All  rise  in  glamour  flushed  with  memories; 

And  from  the  Ischian  Isles  the  Neriad-seas 

Call  to  my  youth  across  the  syren  foam. 

The  air  is  tremulous  with  a  spirit-tone 

Of  by-gone  lyres.     I  hear  the  phantom  throng 
The  rhythmic  thunder  of  the  Mantuan's  lines; 

Lorn  Petrarch  sighing  in  the  Appenines; 
And  as  he  treads  Ravenna's  pave,  alone, 
Again  the  Tuscan  chants  his  deathless  song. 


31 


BY  HER  DEAR  HAND 

WHILE  ranging  far  in  the  Pierian  sky, 

Sudden  some  Power  smote  me  with  a  sword 
Whose  flame  of  blackness  quenched  my  every  word, 
And  cast  me  helpless  where  the  stricken  lie; 

Hope  fled  afar, — it  seemed  my  fate  to  die; 
On  the  gray  air  my  pleadings  I  outpoured, — 
No  promise  echoed  back — no  answering  chord, 
And  Death  on  ashen  wing  was  hovering  nigh. 

Then  that  dear  Spirit  who  loved  me  at  my  birth, — 
Who  solaced  life  with  her  melodious  tone, — 
Broke  throughthegloom,  and  stoodlikewinged  Dawn; 

Seeing  me  crushed,    she  left  her  airy  throne, 
And,  as  a  sister,  led  me  back  to  Earth, 
When  dreams  returned  that  for  a  space  had  gone. 


32 


O  LINGER  YET 

ROSE-BLOOM  and  lilies  that  no  frost  can  kill; 
Visions  of  youthful  grace  that  yet  persist; 
Maidens  with  pleading  arms  at  twilight  tryst, 
Ye  were  the  lures  that  made  the  young  heart  thrill: 

For  you  the  passion,  unrequited  still; 

O  vanished  lips  that  loved  us,  never  kissed, 
Only  the  worn  heart  knows  what  it  hath  missed — 
How  Heaven  itself  can  not  that  dream  fulfill! 

Dear  wraiths  of  Maidens  bearing  fragrant  urns 
Exhaling  incense  of  remembered  years 
When  we,  in  shadowy  walks  of  woodland  ferns 

Poured  out  our  first-love  in  those  tender  vows, 
Ah,  linger  yet,  as  fast  our  twilight  nears, 
Oh,  cheer  the  heart  where  embered  fire  burns  ! 


33 


O  PRESENT  LIFE 

x 

THE  world  is  filled  with  beauty;  'tis  a  rose 

That  wafts  its  fragrance  through  the  air  around, 
As  each  day  bursts — a  flower  from  underground — 
To  fold  into  itself  at  evening's  close. 

This  ache  of  loveliness  is  sweet  to  those 
Who,  life-long,  suffer  some  intemporal  wound  ; 
The  morn  is  consolation,  and  the  night,  profound, 
Offers  her  starlit  spaces  of  repose. 

Enough  for  me  the  usual  day  unrolled, 
Though  the  long  road  be  dimmed  with  dust  of  care,— 
Though  Love  be  flown  on  pinions  dawn-empearled: 

O  Present-Life,  chalice  of  things  most  fair, 
Leave  me  not  yet — not  yet — all  unconsoled, 
And  sad  with  promise  of  a  better  world. 


WHITHER 

SHALL  He,  the  chargers  of  Whose  chariots  are 
Suns  and  their  systems  shod  with  effluence, — 

Shall  He  not  know  the  pathway  of  our  star 
And  through  the  ages  guide  it  surely  thence? 

Shall  He  not  drive  the  chariots  of  the  Worlds 
To  reach  at  last  their  predetermined  goals, 

Where,  past  the  endless  aeons,  still  unfurls 
Elysium  longed  for  by  our  trembling  souls? 

God,  the  Worlds'  Gardener,  sees  within  earth's  halls 
Life  as  a  bud  that  flowers  but  in  To  Be; 

His  will  is  as  a  lamp  that  lights  the  walls 
Down  the  dim  canons  of  Eternity. 


35 


NOVEMBER  PASSES 

HER  torch,  once  flaming,  is  inverted  low, 
And  withered  beauty  follows  in  her  trail; 
Her  voice  drifts  faintly  from  the  leafless  dale, 
And  ghastly  pallor  crowns  that  beauteous  brow; 

For  she,  who  on  each  waiting  woodland  bough. 
Hung  gonfalons  of  crimson,  through  the  vale 
Goes  reft  of  splendor,  wavering  and  frail, 
Yet  queenly  still,  although  dethroned  now. 

I  hear  her  sandals  brush  the  fallen  leaves 

In  lonely  valleys  dim  and  far  away; 

Her  sceptre  gone,  she  wanders  o'er  the  plains 
Wrapped  in  her  fluttering  robes  of  hodden-gray; 

Ghost-like  she  passes  where  the  lost  wind  grieves,- 

One  with  the  spirit  of  lamenting  rains. 


36 


\l 

THE  LITTLE  LADIES  OF  JAPAN 

IN   A    GARDEN    OF   TOKIO 

SWEET  souls  serene,  whom  nothing  can  embroil, 
Submissive,  dutiful,  who  only  know 
To  serve  and  love  and  let  the  great  world  go, — 
Ye  are  the  roses  by  the  road  of  toil. 

Angelic  Indolence!  How  true  a  foil 

To  modern  woman's  ceaseless  rush  and  show. 

Dear  little  Ladies  of  fair  Tokio 

Better  your  languor  than  our  loud  turmoil. 

Ah,  flowery-kirtled  girls  with  cheeks  of  tan, 
You  charm  my  days,  and  in  my  dreams,  allure! 
Ye  dusky  maidens,  daintily  demure, 

In  tiny  gardens  sipping  cups  of  tea, — 
O  cherry-blossom  Daughters  of  Japan, 
Take  the  blown  kiss  now  wafted  o'er  the  sea. 


37 


AVENGED 


I  SAW  that  dark  soul  in  the  moving  throng; 

A  sword  leaped  from  mine  eye; 
I  slashed  the  bloodless  mask  who  did  me  wrong, 

Blazed  on  her,  and  swept  by. 

Then  felt  I  as  superb  Aldabaran  feels 

When,  sudden,  in  the  night 
A  dead  star  passes,  and  in  scorn  he  wheels, 

Spurning  the  corpse — with  light. 


38 


WATER-CRESS 

AT    A    LITTLE    DINNER    IN    PARIS 
Reminiscent  of  1872 

SEEING  the  water-cress  in  Paris  where 

We  dine  together,  she  alone  and  I — 
And  she  is  charming  with  her  breeding  high!  — 

I  quite  forget  my  lady  debonair, 
Forget  the  silver  glitter  and  the  glare. 

The  garcon  fades  ...  A  mist  is  in  mine  eye  .  .  . 

Something  is  wrong, — and  tho'  the  wine  I  try, 

Chateau  Y quern  is  but  v/n  ordinaire. 

Ah  me!  Ah  me!   at  home  again  I  seem; 
Again  with  you  I  tread  the  Summer  air 
And  watch  the  sunlight  kiss  your  glowing  hair: 

Oh,  let  me  have  once  more  my  golden  dream, — 
You — sweetheart — you,  long  lost,  that  with  me  there 
Waded  for  cresses  in  the  Indian  stream! 


39 


A   WINTER    SUNSET 

THE    SUSQUEHANNA 

FAR  off  the  great  stream  held  the  blinding  glare, — 
A  line  of  bleak  effulgence  so  intense 
It  seemed  to  lift  the  River,  and  to  bend 
The  level  radiance  upward;  while  the  woods, 

That  rose  between  us  and  that  blazing  streak 
Were  severed  and  dismembered, — cut  across — 
By  that  long,  horizontal  sword  of  light, 
Which,  made  more  dazzling  by  the  river-ice, 

Hurled  javelin  flashes — scintillating  darts 
Insufferably  brilliant,  blinding  us; 
Then,  turning  from  this  flare,  we  faced  the  East, 

Not  unamused  by  that  mild,  lesser  orb, 
The  troubled  moon, plump  faced,  that  doleful  smiled 
Inanely  toward  us  from  a  lilac  sky. 


40 


FORGOTTEN 

THE  valiant  deed,  the  glorious  dream. 

Oblivion  will  enshroud: 
To  life — a  bubble  on  the  stream — 

How  brief  the  span  allowed! 
Forgotten  is  the  breath  of  Fame — 
Forgotten  as  a  fading  cloud. 

The  glamour  and  the  name. 

Forgotten  as  a  last  year's  nest, 

Wherein  the  brooding  dove 
Kept  warm  with  beatings  of  her  breast 

The  firstlings  of  her  love. 
For  rapturous  song,  and  burning  word, 
And  all  the  splendid  fame  thereof 

Will  never  more  be  heard. 

Forgotten  as  an  orphan's  grave 

That  never  knew  a  tear, 
Where  lonely  mountain  grasses  wave 

Among  the  brambles  sere; 
W'here  e'en  the  homeless  never  walk, — 
The  only  thing  that  cometh  near, 

The  shadow  of  the  hawk. 

41 


AFTER  THE  STORM 

THE  cloud-barred  sunset,  o'er  the  wooded  height, 

Blazed  on,  'mid  rolling  thunder; 
Then,  with  encrimsoned  sword  of  dazzling  light, 

Day  slashed  the  woods  asunder. 

Night  fell:    the  squadrons  of  the  sun  were  fled, — 

Gray  ranks  of  warriors  wounded; 
From  far-off  trumpets  on  that  field  of  red 

Rout  and  defeat  were  sounded. 

But  now  the  Moon,  freed  from  her  cloudy  bars, 

In  robes  the  heavens  lend  her, 
Appears  as  Peace  among  her  pallid  stars 

And  silvers  all  with  splendor. 


42 


A  MAN'S  SONG  FROM  THE  WINTRY  SHORE 

Two  men  abreast,  and  though  touched  with  gray, 

Yet  bouyant  hearts  have  we; 
And  we  love  the  white-maned  Horses'  neigh 
As  they  romp  along  the  sea! 

When  the  petrel,  blown  by  the  tempest-wings, 

Beats  up  against  the  gale, 
And  the  syren-harp  of  the  rigging  sings, 
We  thrill  to  the  bellied  sail. 

As  we  bend  to  the  storm  on  the  beach  today 

No  waft  from  the  South  crave  we, 
But  the  crisp  keen  cut  of  the  tingling  spray 
And  tang  of  the  bitter  sea! 

We  laugh  in  the  face  of  the  blustering  tide, 

Storm-beat,  but  a  joyous  pair, 
As  we  drink  to  the  drones  of  the  fireside 
In  wine  of  the  pungent  air! 


43 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  NEW  YORK 

I,  FROM  the  meadows  of  Song, 

Fresh  from  the  clover  dales, 
Am  here  'mid  the  rushing  throng, 

Regretting  the  fragrant  vales. 

For  there  the  spirit,  Repose, 

Dwells  in  the  shadowy  pass; 
Beauty  is  there  with  her  rose, — 

Leisure,  a-dream  in  the  grass. 

But  yet,  'tis  a  heartening  sight, 

It  was  wrong  to  repine, 
The  rush  has  a  touch  of  delight, 

And  the  fervor  is  fine! 

Oh,  the  Doers  of  Things  are  they, — 

No  shirkers  among  them  all, 
For  Duty  is  calling  to-day, 

And  they  surge  to  the  call! 


44 


''SLOWLY  THE  SPLENDOR  COMES" 

• 

FAINT  music  drifts  among  the  Autumn  boughs, — 
Some  one  is  coming  far  across  the  leas 
Where  haze  makes  dreamland  of  the  fields,  and  bees 
Murmur  the  livelong  day.     The  wading  cows 

Move  lazily  along,  or  stop  to  browse; 

The  orchard,  from  its  golden-fruited  trees, 
Spreads  flickering  shadows  where  the  flocks,  at  ease, 
Rest  in  the  shade  and  indolently  drowse. 

And  now,  mid  bronzing  leaves,  the  silent  jay 
Finds  his  lost  bugle  and  salutes  the  air 
From  tawny  valleys  rich  with  tented  corn; 

Slowly  the  splendor  comes,  as  far  away, 
With  grape-leaves  wreathed  in  his  sun-browned  hair, 
October,  loitering,  winds  a  phantom  horn. 


45 


THE     STATUE 

How  soiled  the  wreath  which  oft  that  strumpet,  Fame, 
Puts  on  the  brazen  forehead  of  the  base! 

Men  lie,  and  plunder,  and  betray  their  race; 
Then  the  State's  coffer  raises  to  their  name 

A  statue, — let  it  mark  eternal  shame, 
And  obloquy,  dishonor  and  disgrace. 


THE  WAR  LORD 

THE  larks  had  nestlings;  dreaming  of  no  hurt, 
Joyous  they  thrilled  their  love-song  overhead: 

Back  to  his  watch, — savage,  erect,  alert, — 
The  brigand  Hawk  returned  with  talons  red. 


THE  DEAD  POET 

His  heart,  a  hidden  fountain,  whence  there  ran 
Through  the  hushed  tenor  of  reclusive  days, 

Deep  love  of  Nature,  and  the  Soul  of  man, 
In  stately  song  and  in  melodious  lays. 

46 


THE  LOCUST  TREES  IN  BLOOM 

AFAR  along  the  winding  way 

The  towering  Locusts  grow, 
Where  zephyrs  shower  the  blossomed  spray 

In  flurries  as  of  snow. 

'  Neath  airy  galleries  wove  of  light 

The  lanes  are  all  perfume, 
While  in  the  blue  the  clustered  white 

Makes  miracles  of  bloom, 

As  though  some  unseen  Ariel-hand, 

To  work  a  wonder  rare, 
By  magic  of  his  elfin  wand 

Strewed  flowers  in  the  air. 

And  high,  the  bowery  limbs  among, 

A  tanager  is  seen, 
A  wayward  troubadour  whose  song 

With  love-notes  thrills  the  green. 


47 


THE    LOCUST    TREES    IN    BLOOM 

And  now,  beneath  the  hum  of  bees, 

Within  the  quiet  land, 
Two  lovers  meet  beside  the  trees 

And  wander,  hand-in-hand. 

O  tenderest  time  for  old  and  young, 

Your  voice  is  in  mine  ear; 
And  gentlest  Solace  finds  no  tongue 

To  stifle  back  the  tear. 

To  us,  more  precious  is  each  hour, — 

The  remnant  dearer  grows; 
'Twas  Youth  that  spurned  the  dewy  flower, 

We  hoard  the  faded  rose. 

Ye  days  of  love  and  bloom,  now  gone, 

Ye  bring  a  pang  of  pain, 
For  if  we  walk,  we  walk  alone 

Within  the  Locust  lane! 


48 


OUR    SAILORS'    GRAVES 

CALIFORNIA    MEMORIAL   DAY 

I  FLUSHED  for  shame, — I  thought  about  his  grave: 
No  loved  ones  watch  his  mound  with  tender  sighs; 
No  place  on  earth  for  him  who  for  us  dies — 
Our  patriot  Sailor!  Ah,  how  deck  the  brave 

Who  slowly  sink  to  some  dim  ocean  cave! 

O  where  shall  love,  looking  through  Memory' s  eyes, 
Strew  flowers  for  him — for  him  who,  drifting,  lies 
Whelmed  in  the  dark  unfathomable  wave? 

Take  heart!  our  Sailors  gone — that  silent  host 
Far  from  our  sight — rest  not  ungarlanded; 
The  Daughters  of  the  West,  each  year  in  May, 

In  tribute,  far  along  the  Golden  Coast, 
Scatter  fresh  roses  on  the  glorious  Bay, 
And  Ocean  garlands  every  hero's  head! 


49 


THE     UN REVEALED 

THE  lure  that  hangs  above  the  unseen  heights 

Comes  from  the  gathered  mist.     The  unknown  sea 
Enthralls  us  by  her  vast  profundity; 
It  is  the  cryptic  which  the  soul  invites: 

The  Muse  ascends  in  her  immortal  flights 
To  wing  the  borders  of  infinity:  — 
Mother  of  all  the  Faiths,  thou,  Mystery, 
The  sealed  fountain  of  divine  delights! 

Shall  man  dissect  the  violet?     Must  we  tear 
The  precious  rose  of  poesy  apart 
That  it  reveal  its  beauty?     Shall  we  wear 

Outside  our  breast  the  bruised  human  heart 

Nor  veil  the  sacred  fount?  .  .  .   Oh,  rather  shroud 
The  poet's  meaning  in  the  golden  cloud! 


50 


THE    PAINTING 

WHAT  makes  the  painting  foremost  of  its  kind? 

Color  and  composition  nobly  planned, — 
The  falcon  vision  of  the  brooding  mind, — 

Then  swift  precision  of  the  brain-led  hand. 

THE     LURE 

THAT  fine,  diurnal  wheel  the  spider  weaves 
Is  like  the  web  Hope  spins  for  men: 

When  Fate,  each  morn,  no  vestige  of  it  leaves, 
Hope  spins  the  subtle  lure  again. 

THE  SOLEMNITES 

WHEN  joy  arrives  their  faces  show  no  flash 
Of  happiness,  but  still  are  draped  in  gloom, 

As,  in  the  Spring,  with  trees  in  snowy  bloom, 
Come  the  black  blossoms  of  the  Ash. 


51 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  RAMON  DE  MIROVAL, 
TROUBADOUR 

THOUGH  long  my  youth  hath  flown,  and  now 

The  gloaming  darkly  gleams, 
I  feel  the  morning  flush  my  brow 

From  out  the  dale  of  dreams. 

Though  lone  I  wander  far  and  wide, 

A  Presence  near  me  seems, 
A  gentle  wraith  is  by  my  side 

Born  in  the  vale  of  dreams. 

A  spirit  calls  me  from  afar 

Across  the  phantom  streams 
And  beckons  as  the  morning  star 

Above  the  dale  of  dreams. 

My  twilight  comes;   the  night  is  near, 

Yet  brightly  memory  beams, 
And  brings  again  the  smile — the  tear 

From  out  the  vale  of  dreams. 

Though  youth  is  dead,  yet  in  the^heart 

The  morning  rapture  gleams; 
My  spirit  dwells  with  one  apart 

Within  the  dale  of  dreams. 

52 


THE  DRIZZLING  DAY 

I  WALK  the  glistening  porch,  but  all  in  vain 

Hope  for  the  sun.      Drip — drip  from  oaken  sprays, 
While  every  bole  grows  darker  in  the  haze, 
And  lyric  spouts  announce  their  low  complain. 

The  downward  smoke  that  leaves  the  rumbling  train 
Hugs  the  dimmed  hill.  Through  veils  of  misty  grays 
I  see  the  distant  herd  contented  graze 
In  dull  indifference  to  the  dismal  rain. 

I  feel  the  leaden  time;   I  need  the  cheer, — 
Even  the  solemn  cheer  of  setting  suns; 
Yet  still  the  mind  on  brighter  prospects  runs: 

If  skies  are  dark,  lo,  to  the  shrine  I  turn;  — 
Doth  not  the  torch  of  song  forever  burn 
Within  the  minstrel's  home,  though  days  are  drear? 


53 


STARLIGHT  BY  THE  SEA 

I  DEEMED  the  rose  of  morning-twilight  sweet, 

That  blossoms  but  to  fade, 
I  loved  the  noon-day  shimmering  o'er  the  wheat, 

Seen  from  the  beechen  shade. 

The  clarions  of  the  sunset  called  me  there 

To  watch  through  tranced  hours, 
The  conflagration  and  the  dying  flare 

Of  cloudy  Trojan  towers. 

Now,  by  the  Sea,  I  troth  my  soul  to  Night, 

My  bride  shall  be  a  star, 
Her  lure  shall  lift  me  to  her  winged  height 

Beyond  the  phantom  bar. 


54 


AT  THE  DAY'S  END 

THE  evening  sky  is  golden 
Along  the  mountain  rim, 

And  all  the  wild-wood  olden 
Is  growing  dusk  and  dim. 

What  rapturous  notes  are  soaring 
Above  the  underbrush?  .... 

It  is  the  soul  outpouring 
Of  some  love-mated  thrush. 

Such  love  is  his  to  send  her. 

So  touching  and  so  dear — 
So  sweet — so  wild — so  tender 

It  pains  the  heart  to  hear! 

The  West  burns  down  to  embers; 

The  song  sinks  faint  and  low; 
And  the  lonely  heart  remembers 

A  twilight  long  ago! 

55 


ON  BEING  INVITED  TO  WINTER  IN 
CALIFORNIA 

Our  boyhood's  River  here  from  shore  to  shore 

With  unrelenting  ice  is  bound; 
The  wind,  by  islands  where  we  ranged  of  yore, 

Howls  like  a  famished  hound 

Your  letter  bids  me  to  your  orange  groves 
With  aureate  splendor  bending  low, 

And  lures  to  azure  inlets  and  to  coves 
Of  more  than  sapphire  glow; 

Entices  me  to  orchards  where  one  sees 
The  turbaned  Hindoo,  lithe  and  mute, 

Perched  in  the  branches  of  your  olive-trees 
Picking  the  purpled  fruit; 


ON    BEING    INVITED    TO    WINTER    IN    CALIFORNIA 

A  clime  where  one  may  pass  the  livelong  day 
'  Mid  fragrance  of  December  flowers, 

With  wandering  airs  of  ozone  from  the  Bay 
To  vivify  the  hours; 

Where  you  can  see  each  blushing  sunrise  peep 
Above  the  cloud-born  waterfall;  — 

Each  evening  watch  the  belfry-shadows  creep 
Up  the  adobe  wall; 

Far  off,  the  canon  and  the  cliff  are  yours 
Where  the  undaunted  eagles  reign, — 

Yours,  where  the  Mesa  rises  and  allures 
Above  the  endless  plain; 

While  I,  through  frosted  windows,  see  the  hills 

Whiten  beneath  my  sunset  view; 
On  bloomless  paths  beside  the  frozen  rills 

My  thoughts  return  to  you: 


57 


ON    BEING    INVITED    TO    WINTER    IN    CALIFORNIA 

Summer  is  yours,  but  mine  the  Winter  drear; 

You  breathe  the  flower;   I  tread  the  snows; 
Yet  I,  in  spirit,  from  the  sunset  here 

Shall  pluck  the  crimson  rose; 

And  oft  in  crystal  meadows  I  shall  wade 
Through  prism-colors  of  the  sleet, — 

Through  briery  upland  pastures  where  each  blade 
Drops  jewels  round  the  feet; 

To  me  will  float  the  red-bird's  whistle  clear 
From  snow-bent  branches  of  the  fir, 

And,  footing  through  the  thicket,  I  will  hear 
The  startled  pheasant  whirr. 

The  wave-like  snow-drifts  by  the  straggling  fence 
Shall  charm  the  sight,  and  seeing  these, 

In  my  imagination  I  shall  sense 
The  surge  of  Arctic  seas: 

58 


ON    BEING    INVITED    TO    WINTER    IN    CALIFORNIA 

To  me  the  mile-wide  River  which  unfurls 

Its  skating  surface  to  our  ken, 
With  joyous  bevies  of  our  beauteous  girls, 

Will  bring  my  youth  again: 

To  me  the  Christmas  holly  in  our  dells 

Will  bend  her  scarlet  berries  low, 
And  moonlight  laughter  mixed  with  sleighing  bells 

Will  drift  across  the  snow: 


Such  slender  consolation  will  be  mine, 
Brother,  while  we  are  kept  apart, 

Feeling,  across  the  miles,  my  hand  in  thine, 
Thy  heart  beside  my  heart. 


59 


DEFEATED 

LIKE  one  he  was  who,  bleeding  from  the  strife, 
Pleads  at  the  Refuge-City's  barriered  gate; 

His  was  a  wound,  made  by  the  sword  of  Life, 
Kept  open  by  the  thrusts  of  Fate. 

Talent  was  his,  and  yet  he  could  not  brook 

The  stronger  wing  that  reached  the  higher  cloud; 

And  rather  than  be  less,  he  rashly  took 
The  life  whose  garland  proved  a  shroud: 

As  though  a  star — some  late-created  World- 
Angered  at  God  because  of  lessened  light, 

Should  dash  itself  to  Chaos,  and  be  hurled 
Back  into  starless  voids  of  night. 


60 


THE     RELENTLESS    ONE 

ACROSS  the  West  the  angry  clouds  are  torn, — 
Their  scattered  fragments  streak  the  livid  sky; 

On  the  wide  river,  by  the  blizzard  borne, 
The  scudding  white-caps  fly. 

Upon  the  eaves  the  cold  has  hung  his  spears 
Where  late  the  ivied  sparrows  held  their  choir; 

Sharp  on  the  bleak  ridge  of  the  hill  appears 
The  dagger  of  the  spire. 

With  wolf-pelts  wrapped  about  his  shaggy  head, 
And  body  swathed  in  pallid,  arctic  hides, 

Lo,  o'er  the  white,  with  stealthy,  polar-tread, 
The  Savage, — Winter, — strides! 


61 


IMPRISONED 

THE  sunny  porch  is  with  leaf-shadows  strewn, 
Where  in  forced  leisure,  I  myself  console, 
Watching  the  birds  about  the  wooded  knoll: 
The  meadow-lark  from  some  dim  woodland  flown 

To  plaint  for  me  its  old  remembered  tone; 
The  flying  sunrise  of  the  oriole; 
Flickers  whose  harp  is  in  each  hollow  bole; 
And  love,  like  sorrow,  in  the  gray  dove's  moan. 

But  most  I  prize  the  oft  returning  wren, — 

Whose  pleasant  racket  used  to  haunt  my  door, — 
That  now  in  April,  comes  to  me  again: 

Audacious  Midget!  that,  if  not  in  sight, 

Sends  her  small  shadow  flying  o'er  the  floor, 
Builds  as  she  chatters,  while  I  strive  to  write. 


62 


AN  EVENING  AT  LITITZ 

BENEATH  the  trees  the  old  swing's  ample  seat, 
Freighted  with  maids  demure,  sways  to  and  fro; 
One  maiden  to  herself  sings  soft  and  low, 
And  in  the  shadows  here  the  stifling  heat 

Lessens,  while  by  the  public  fountain,  meet 
Worn  men,  and  tired  horses,  moving  slow, 
Yet  eager  for  the  cooling  streams  which  flow 
From  yon  blue  hills  beyond  the  fields  of  wheat. 

While  sinks  the  sun,  the  bending  toilers  move 
Homeward  along  the  quiet,  leafy  way; 
And  now  the  moon  amid  the  boughs  is  hung: 

It  is  the  evening  of  the  Sacred  Play, 
And  the  grave  people  gather  in  the  grove, 
Where  the  old  Bible  Story  will  be  sung. 


63 


BEFORE  DAYBREAK 

THE  snow-birds  flutter  in  the  shocks  of  corn 
And  loose  the  icy  spangles  in  their  flight; 

The  hamlet  slumbers  in  the  frosted  morn 
And  all  the  roofs  are  white. 

The  sheeted  steeples  of  the  village  stab 
The  pallid  light  above  the  coming  glow, 

While  the  hushed  valley,  lying  dim  and  drab, 
Pales  with  its  pall  of  snow. 

And  high  aloft,  the  crows,  a  hurrying  crowd, 
Catch,  as  they  wing,  the  earliest  glint  of  day, 

Which  tips  the  engine's  upward-rolling  cloud 
Of  elephantine  gray. 

But  now  the  bright  and  all-revealing  Sun 
Our  realm  of  mystery  and  dream  invades, 

Shatters  the  web  which  dearest  Fancy  spun 
And  lo,  the  glamour  fades! 

64 


REMBRANDT 

HUDSON-FULTON  EXHIBITION  — 
NEW    YORK 


How  slight,  how  vacuous  all  the  moderns  seem 
By  thy  dark  splendors!   Lo,  these  works  of  thine 
Have  bridged  oblivion,  and  thy  name  entwine 
With  fame  eterne,  —  Lord  of  the  brush  supreme! 

Others  but  limned  the  surface,  —  thy  demesne  — 
The  inviolate  sanctum  of  the  inner  shrine: 
Beneath  the  form  thou  saw'st  the  soul  divine, 
O  painter  of  the  Spirit's  brooding  Dream. 

Artist  beloved!  who  dawned  so  gloriously, 
Thy  star  in  sorrow  set,  —  thy  evening  here 
Was  dimmed  —  neglect  and    penury  thy  part; 

But  Glory,  bending,  brings  her  palms  to  thee, 
Poet,  who  in  the  lowliest  human  heart 
Discerned  the  pathos  and  divined  the  tear. 


66 


THE  WORLD'S  TRANSIENT  GUEST 

HE  is  not  ours,  for  heaven  has  only  lent 

His  presence  here,  whose  heart  is  seamed  with  scars 

Made  by  renunciations,  and  the  wars 

Waged  with  the  World  wherein  the  soul  is  pent. 

He  treads  our  paths,  but  still  his  gaze  is  bent 
On  Him  whose  glance  through  Chaos  lit  the  stars. 
These  mortal  years  are  but  as  prison-bars 
That  keep  him  from  the  skies  in  discontent. 

He  hears  the  cryptic  clarion's  far  appeals 
To  scale  the  heights  of  being,  and  to  drink 
From  founts  that  mystics  only,  have  divined: 

In  trance,  he  trembles  on  the  crystal  brink 
Of  spirit  revelation,  while  he  feels 
Immortal  pinions  springing  in  the  mind. 


66 


SHE  WAS  A  BREATH  OF  SPRINGTIME' 


SHE    was  a  breath  of  springtime— 

The  violet's  dim  perfume 
She  brought  a  sense  of  purity, 

Of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 

Her  hair  was  as  the  chestnut, 
Her  cheek  the  mountain  rose; 

Her  neck  was  like  the  lily  white 
That  in  seclusion  grows. 

She  seemed  of  youth  so  vibrant 

A  joy  to  heart  and  eye — 
To  look  at  her,  one  scarce  could  think 

Such  loveliness  could  die. 


67 


SHE    WAS    A    BREATH    OF    SPRINGTIME 


But  a  sorrow  fell  upon  me 
When  I  saw  her  in  her  shroud, 

As  on  the  hills  of  summer 
Falls  the  shadow  of  a  cloud; 

And  when  I  think  of  all  she  was- 
Her  sweet  and  gentle  ways, 

Oh,  the  shadow  darkly  deepens 
Round  the  sunset  of  my  days! 


68 


SO  SANG  AN  ENGLISH  POET 

THE  Spring  had  come,  and  cherry-trees  were  white; 
The  lawn  was  vocal  with  their  warbled  words, — 
That  joyful  trouble  of  the  building  birds, — 
A  garrulous  music  round  each  nesting  site; 

Yet  I  was  sad,  my  mind  on  lost  delight, 

On  death  of  loved  ones  and  on  Youth  grown  old; 
And  said,  as  flickers  rose  on  wings  of  gold:  — 
"So  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight"! 

Thus  once  an  English  poet,  not  in  vain, — 
Sang  of  the  pathos  of  the  parting  pain, 
His  voice  all  tremulous  with  unbidden  tears: 

Alas!   how  few  things  of  our  twilight  day 
Grow  golden  as  they  fade  from  us  away,— 
Enaureoled  by  the  consuming  years. 


69 


BALBOA  IN  PANAMA 

1513    A.   D. 

ALONE  I  reach  the  summit, — Has  the  glare 

Dazzled  my  sight,  or  am  I  stunned  and  dazed? 
Can  yon  wide  plain  be  water?     God  be  praised!  — 
An  Ocean!  'tis  an  Ocean — blue  as  air! 

Flash  forth  the  swords!    Let  the  shrill  bugle  blare! 
Plant  here  our  flag  that  never  shall  be  razed. 
Bring  up  my  men, — the  sick — the  fever-crazed: 
NowComrades,  doff  the  casque  and  kneel  in  prayer. 

For,  by  my  faith,  our  day's  work  in  this  zone 
Makes  us  immortal.     Fame  shall  trumpet  me 
Beyond  the  meager  verges  of  the  Known. 

So,  from  this  peak,  in  proud  humility, 

This  vast  wave-turquois — this  cerulean  sea — 
Gem-like,  I  lay  before  Esp ana's  throne. 


70 


THE    SHADOWY    CITY    LOOMS 

NEW    YORK    FROM    THE    NORTH    RIVER 

IN  deepening  shades  the  haunting  vision  swims: 

A  denser  grayness  settles  o'er  the  stream; 
The  domes  are  veiled;  the  wondrous  City  dims — 
Dims  as  a  dream: 

The  night  transforms  it  to  a  palace  vast 

Lit  with  a  thousand  lamps  from  cryptic  wires; 
The  vaporous  walls  are  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
Strange  with  vague  spires: 

Huge,  peopled  monoliths  that  touch  the  skies, 

Whose  indeterminate  bases  baffle  sight; 
Each  with  its  Argus,  incandescent  eyes 
Pierces  the  night: 


71 


THE    SHADOWY    CITY    LOOMS 


Undreamt-of  heights  of  glimmering  marble  loom 

Like  some  enchanted  fabric  wrought  of  air; 
Gigantic  shafts  of  insubstantial  gloom 
Lift,  shadowy,  there: 

Could  fabled  Camelot  of  the  poet's  dream 

Surpass  these  towers  soaring  from  the  mist? — 
These  steel-ribbed  granite  miracles  that  gleam 
Dim  amethyst?  .  .  . 

Slow  on  the  tide,  from  murky  coves  remote, 

The  freighted  barges  move,  laboriously, 
While  some  palatial,  golden-lighted  boat 
Steams  for  the  sea: 


THE    SHADOWY    CITY    LOOMS 


Now  that  the  moon  is  breaking  through  the  cloud 

The  radiant  halo  o'er  the  city  pales; 
Shimmer  the  dusky  wharves  with  mast  and  shroud 
And  furled  sails: 

Soft  strains  of  music,  hovering,  drift  away; 

In  cloudy  turrets  toll  the  spectral  bells; 
While  the  sea-voices,  from  the  wastes  of  gray, 
Send  faint  farewells: 

The  homing  sloops  are  sheltered  in  the  slip; 
The  silence  deepens;   and  up-stream,  afar, 
A  fading  lantern  on  an  anchored  ship 
Seems  a  lost  star. 


73 


44  AS  EVENING  LOWERS" 

AND  was  it  true,  or  but  some  splendid  dream — . 
That  pageant  of  the  dawn,  whose  glittering  spears 
Routed  the  cohorts  of  ephemeral  fears, 
Throning  proud  Youth  triumphant  and  supreme? 

Why  did  no  trumpet's  monitory  scream 
Warn  us  of  wounds,  and  of  the  surge  of  tears?  .... 
Ah,  now,  as  evening  lowers,  and  twilight  nears, 
How  faint  and  far  those  fields  of  morning  seem! 

Well,  let  the  fair  auroral  phantoms  go; 

We  thank  the  mirage  that  it  led  to  light; 

We  thank  defeat  for  these  resplendent  scars: 
Now,  after  sunset — night,  but  through  the  night, 

Shall  not  the  dreamer  in  the  darkness  know 

The  solace  and  communion  of  the  stars? 


74 


A  SONG  BY  THE  MISTY  SEA 

O  THE  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  dazzling  waves 

And  the  blinding  line  of  white, — 
They  are  not  for  me,  for  the  spirit  craves 

The  lure  of  the  lessened  light. 

When  the  evening  dies  to  a  flower  of  gray, 

Or  the  lily  of  morning  pales; 
When  the  mist  comes  drifting  over  the  Bay 

To  shroud  the  moving  sails; 

\ 

When  the  dunes  grow  dim  as  the  wing  of  the  gulls 

That  flit  o'er  the  ashen  sea; 
When  the  grayness  grows  and  the  glory  dulls — 
Ah,  that  is  the  time  for  me! 


75 


THEN  DEATH  REPLIED 

O  THROBBING  Life!  away  beyond  the  strife, — 
Beyond  the  toil,  when  all  the  dream  is  o'er, — 

What  shall  betide? 
Shall  effort  end  in  mystery  and  fear, 

As  foot-prints,  leading  to  a  river  wide, 
That  show  their  impress  on  the  nearer  shore 

But  disappear 
And  are  not  found  upon  the  farther  side? 

Then  Death  to  me  replied; 
But  of  his  utterance,  veiled,  I  could  not  hear 

Or  understand  a  tithe, 
Because  of  the  insatiate  roar 

Made  by  his  ruthless  scythe. 


76 


A  WAYSIDE  WEED  IN  BLOOM 

MUSING,  I  said,  "Now  that  the  summer's  blaze 
Has  dimmed  the  teeming  blossoms  of  the  meads 
And  dulled  the  lilies  by  the  lyric  reeds, 
Few  flowers  are  left.      Barren  are  all  the  ways.'* 

Then,  'mid  a  straggling  growth  of  browns  and  grays, 
The  blue  of  heaven  bloomed — weed  among  weeds — 
Yet  pure  delight  it  brought  me,  and  I  needs 
Must  claim  it  as  a  Flower  through  all  my  days. 

O  spirit  of  April  in  the  fading  year — 
Sweet  harbinger  of  far  celestial  birth! 
Thou  bear'st  a  message  we  may  not  ignore, 

For  while  the  tiger  Hates  of  Europe  roar, 
Thou,  by  thine  azure,  bring' st  the  sky  anear, 
To  show  a  little  of  heaven  is  still  on  earth. 


77 


OF  AN  AGED  POET 


Now,  the  Poet  olden 
Sings  no  more  his  song; 

Like  a  shrunken  brooklet 
Mute  he  moves  along; 

Like  a  Winter  garden 
When  its  work  is  done,- 

All  the  beds  and  borders 
Bloomless  in  the  sun; 

But  in  regions  fairer, 
By  the  lilied  streams, 

Many  a  margin  trembles 
To  his  lyric  dreams. 


78 


SAPPHO     TO     PHAON 

ON    THE    LESBIAN    HEADLAND 
ISAPPH1C] 

WE  TOGETHER,  high  o'er  the  shadowy  water, 
Thou  and  I — the  wings  of  the  sea-gulls  near  us, — 
Smoulder  with  love; — I  am  the  burning  daughter 
Favored  of  Eros. 

Lovely  Phaon!    ah,  thou  art  fairer,  younger; 
Such  the  barbed  spear  darted  by  Time  to  hurt  me; 
Wearied  at  last;    sick  of  my  endless  hunger, 
Thou  wilt  desert  me. 

Then  a  maiden,  dove-like  and  humbly  duteous, 
She,  ah,  some  day,  she  with  her  bloom  will  take  thee; 
Were  I  fair  as  Venus,  or  still  more  beauteous 
Thou  wouldst  forsake  me! 

Better  to  leap  far  in  the  depths  of  ocean, 
Sheer  from  cliff-edge  down  to  the  dreaded  Kraken, 
There  to  forget  utterly  all  emotion, 
Than  live  forsaken! 


79. 


TIMOTHY   COLE,    ENGRAVER 

ARTIST,  whose  life  with  rare  production  teems, 
Beneath  thy  burin  how  the  picture  glows! 
The  painter's  work,  oft  fading  as  the  rose, 
Blooms  on  thy  block  again,  and  mirrored  seems. 

From  Raphael's  grace  to  Rembrandt's  shadowygleams, 
A  sumptuous  pageant  still  thy  genius  shows, — 
The  long  procession  eminent,  that  goes 
Adown  the  glimmering  gallery  of  Dreams. 

Old  Durer  would  have  ta'en  thee  to  his  heart: 
Thy  work — a  beacon  on  the  hills  of  Fame; 
Though  richly  laureled,  let  our  tribute  wreathe 

Thy  brow,  O  master  of  the  graver's  art, 

As  we,  who  worship  Beauty,  place  thy  name 
First  amongthosewho  makethebox-woodbreathe. 


80 


WHEN    LOVE    WAS    BORN 

AFTER  the  morning  and  the  evening  blushed 

Obedient  to  His  rod, 
'Twas  then  the  daring  thought  of  Adam  flushed 

The  veiled  brow  of  God; 

But  ere  the  maiden-mother  of  the  race 

In  His  mind  lay  unfurled, 
Whose  beauty,  later,  for  a  moment's  space 

Made  God  forget  His  world, 

The  sullen  Earth  was  as  an  iron  lyre 

With  leaden  chords  forlorn; 
The  air  was  empty  of  all  tense  desire, — 

E'en  Hope  had  not  been  born: 

Then  she,  whose  coming  thrilled  the  ether  through 

Where  all  before  was  dearth, 
Dropt  like  a  roseate  star  in  Eden  dew — 

A  nd  Love  was  on  the  Earth. 


81 


WILLIAM    UHLER    HENSEL 

OBIT.    FEBRUARY,     1915 

WHAT  shall  we  say  of  him  whose  words  of  weight 
Swayed  his  rapt  hearers,  and  whose  Attic  phrase 
Charmed  at  the  board  all  guests  in  happier  days? 
*Tis  now  "Bleak  House"indeed! — where  once,  elate, 

He  showered  hospitality,  till  fate 

Called  him  beyond  the  chorus  of  our  praise — 
Him  whose  broad  intellect,  in  a  thousand  ways, 
Brought  honor  to  his  region  and  the  State. 

The  highest  eulogies,  when  all  is  said, 
Are  futile  still,  and  show  him  but  in  part, 
Yet  I  would  pay  some  homage  to  the  dead: 

Let  me,  recalling  through  that  life  of  stress 
The  unfailing  fountain  of  his  kindliness, 
Offer  my  tribute  to  his  golden  heart. 


82 


ON    THE    WINTER    PORCH 

THE  chill  rain  ended,  gloomy  was  the  world; 
No  beauty  dwelt  within  the  leaden  hours; 
And  then  a  change, — the  gorgeous  sinking  sun, 
So  truly  mirrored  on  the  dripping  porch, 

Transformed  the  floor  to  some  resplendent  lake 
Of  aureate  refulgence.     Through  that  gold 
I  walked,  as  on  a  solid  sea,  and  saw 
God  shower  His  jewels  of  the  Apocalypse — 

Spalls  from  the  twelve  foundations  radiant — 
Within  the  burning  furnace  of  the  West, 
Where  all  these  molten  gems,  there  fusing,  blazed 

Unutterable  splendor  ....  Then  the  Day 
Paled  unto  death,  yet  on  her  Phoenix-pyre 
The  embers  crimsoned  with  the  dream  of  Dawn 


83 


THE   PREMONITION 

A  SPIRIT  touched  me  as  I  slept,  and  said: 
"I  hear  the  Host  of  Desolation  choir 
The  dirge  for  kingdoms  that  shall  soon  expire; 
Portents  of  ill  resound,  and  thunders  dread: 
Moans  of  the  wounded,  prayers  for  legions  dead; 
Crash  of  cathedrals,  roar  of  towns  afire; 
Reft  sweethearts  wailing  o'er  the  burial  pyre; 
And  grief  of  orphans  by  wan  mothers  led. 

Peace,  with  her  bleeding  wings,  flew  off  afar, 
Above  the  oceans  dimmed  with  battle  smoke; 
I  heard  her  weeping  for  this  world  of  woe; 

'Poor,  purblind  world,'  she  wept."   Then  I  awoke, 
And,  yearning,  asked,"Oh,when  shall  rise  His  star, 
That  trembled  over  Bethlehem  long  ago?" 


84 


C  M  D  M  O  N 

HIGH  on  the  cliff  the  monastery  gleamed; 
Far  off  there  lay  the  glimmer  of  the  sea; 
And  on  the  rolling  headland,  musingly, 
The  cowherd,  Caedmon,  watched  a  cloud  and  dreamed; 

A  poet  mute  he  was,  whose  lips  still  seemed 
Untouched  by  fire  divine, — but,  suddenly, 
Song  surged  within  him  to  an  ecstasy, 
Flamed  in  his  soul,  and  forth  the  numbers  streamed. 

Thou  Saxon  Bard!    silent  so  many  a  day, 
Who  lauded  Man  and  Nature  in  thy  lay, 
Rise  from  thy  crypt,  and  in  o'erwhelming  wrath 

Scathe  our  degenerate  World — a  world  of  graves, — 
Whose  human  harvest  shows  one  scarlet  path, 
While  dreadful  Death  incarnadines  the  waves. 


85 


YE   VENGEFUL   KINGS 

WHEN  Death,  the  silent,  to  the  world  descends 

With  muffled  wings,  the  aged  hear  their  knell; 
"After  Life's  fitful  fever  they  sleep  well," 
For  aged  life  and  Death  have  long  been  friends: 

But  when  a  slaughtering  Nation,  heartless,  sends 
The  flower  of  Youth  to  face  War's  furious  hell, — 
Youth,  made  for  hope  and  love, — oh,  who  shall  tell 
The  pang  and  after-anguish  this  portends! 

Youth,  the  beloved  of  heaven, — the  precious  rose 
Most  beauteous  in  the  garden  of  the  world, 
The  crowning  glory  from  the  hand  of  God; 

Ye  vengeful  Kings!  mark  how  the  red  stream  flows, 
And  cower  to  think — your  war-flags  still  unfurled — 
With  what  inviolate  blood  you  stain  the  sod! 


THE   CRIMSON   SWATH 

I  HEAR  a  threnode  sweep  the  skies  of  war 
Where  great  archangels  from  the  void  of  night 
Drop  pitying  tears,  as  soft  they  take  their  flight, 
Above  the  vanquished  and  the  conqueror. 

The  charnel  trenches  reek  with  clotted  gore. 

The  rose  of  Earth — dear  Youth — now  dies  in  fight; 
The  Heart  of  Mercy  shudders  at  the  sight, 
And  frenzied  Europe  seems  one  abattoir. 

The  storming  bugles  scarce  begin  to  blow, 

And  yet  the  quivering  grass  is  crimson-steeped, 
And  mangled  legions  will  in  anguish  writhe; 

Man  trembles  at  immeasurable  woe, 
As  on  the  mad  World's  scarlet  field  is  heaped 
The  swath  of  Death's  insatiable  scythe! 


87 


TO    PHILADELPHIANS    DURING   THE   BELGIAN 
RELIEF    CAMPAIGN 

As  SOME  rich  Baron  on  a  wintry  shore, 

Standing  'mid  coffers  bulging  with  his  gold, 
And  with  great  argosies  of  wealth  untold, 
Hears,  oversea,  their  anguish  who  implore 

Aid  ere  they  starve,  then  straightway  from  his  store 
Supplies  their  wants,  yet  heeds  not  his  own  fold, — 
His  famished  people  huddled  in  the  cold,— 
Nor  feels  the  destitution  at  his  door; 

So  ye,  rich  givers  to  an  alien  land, 

With  princely  hoard  of  silver  and  of  wheat, 
Sent  grain-ships  far  across  the  ocean  foam; 

Freely  you  gave,  nor  saw  the  bread-line  stand 
Famished  and  shivering  on  your  city  street, 
Nor  knew  Beneficence  begins  at  home. 


88 


THE    EMERGENCY  AID   COMMITTEE   OF 
PHILADELPHIA 

Bur  now  your  City,  in  the  spirit  of  Penn, 

Comes  to  the  rescue  with  unfaltering  zeal; 

Your  noble  women  make  their  strong  appeal 

Unto  the  pitying  tenderness  of  men; 
Rich  purses  open,  and  the  citizen 

Pours  out  his  bounty  for  the  commonweal; 

Ah.  Quaker  City!  now,  in  you,  we  feel 

The  Good  Samaritan  has  come  again! 
To-day  you  succor  first  your  own  oppressed, 

And  when  your  people  wake,  relief  is  sure; 

Children,  with  timid  faces  filled  with  light, 
Drop  in  the  tube  their  little  hoarded  mite; 

And  e'  en  the  needy  come  with  coin — thrice  blessed 

Who  give  to  others  while  themselves  are  poor! 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  CIVILIZATION 

OUR  pity  for  the  ignorant  soldier  slain 
In  reeking  swaths  before  the  cannonade; 
For  all  the  thoughtless  ranks,  by  shell  and  blade 
Strewn  by  the  thousands  on  the  sickening  plain; 

This  is  but  cause  for  mitigable  pain; 

But,  Oh,  the  dreadful  movement  retrograde! 
Grief  for  the  world's  great  thinkers  unafraid, — 
The  decimation  of  the  men  of  brain! 

True  heroes  of  the  Kingdom  of  the  Mind, 

For  loss  of  these  the  world  with  woe  is  fraught; 
This  vanguard  of  the  millions;  they  who  seek 

Progress,  and  betterment  of  all  mankind; 
Who,  eager  on  the  Future's  frontier  peak, 
With  golden  clarions  sound  the  march  of  thought; 


90 


ULTIMATE  BROTHERHOOD 

SHALL  Force  alone  enslave  the  World  anew? 
Now  man  no  longer  listens  to  the  Word, 
But  serves  the  red  puissance  of  the  Sword: 
Our  million-slaying  Masters — they  who  drew 

This  horror  on  us, — make  the  cave-man's  crew 
Seem  beatific;  but  can  we  afford 
To  turn  the  world  into  a  slaughter-horde, 
And  to  our  long  advancement  bid  adieu? 

Ah,  Peace,  at  last  shall  bear  her  perfect  flower; 
With  faith  in  Man's  great  Brotherhood,  re-nerved 
We  stand,  foreseeing  victory  for  the  soul; 

Though  Russia,  with  Enceladean  power, 
Like  some  stupendous  glacier,  unobserved, 
Move  through  the  centuries,  to  her  baleful  goal. 


91 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  PEACE 

THE  cannon  roared,  and  deafening  was  the  sound, 
When  that  grim  Rider  of  the  Pale  Horse  led 
The  plunging  squadrons  till  their  hoofs  were  red. 
Where  the  charged  wires  left  a  heaping  mound 

Of  writhing  wounded,  there  the  Catlings  ground 
Infernal  horror,  and  with  fury  fed 
The  maw  of  Havoc;  then,  in  awful  dread, 
The  wounded  saw  the  surgeons  probe  the  wound. 

The  ocean  mine  the  armored  ship  benumbs, 
And  lydite  shells,  with  suffocating  breath, 
Swirl  the  crews  down  in  agony  untold: 

The  sea, — a  wandering  cave  of  prowling  bombs; 
The  air, — a  flying  arsenal  of  death; 
And  man, — the  "food  for  powder,"  as  of  old. 


92 


MIDNIGHT  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  GRANT 

RIVERSIDE    DRIVE,    N.    Y. 

O  WARRIOR,  art  thou  troubled  in  thy  tomb 
As  far  off  cannon-thunders  reach  thine  ear? 
Thy  very  dust  should  quiver  now  to  hear 
The  anguish  rising  where  the  death-clouds  loom: 

O  generous  Victor,  in  that  marble  gloom, — 

Thou  whospoke  seldom, — from  that  dwelling  drear 
Speak  thou  with  clarion  tone, — proclaim  it  clear 
That  hell-born  Carnage  now  shall  meet  its  doom: 

Rise  from  thy  crypt  to  mount  thy  phantom  steed, 
And  like  some  ghostly  and  gigantic  Knight 
Throned  on  this  summit  in  the  moon's  weird  light, 

Let  thy  voice  sound  across  encrimsoned  seas; 

Warn  the  mad  World,  and  with  the  Nations  plead 
For  lasting  concord — universal  peace! 


93 


LANDSEER'S   PAINTING— "  PEACE  " 

Lo!  Time  hath  soothed  the  headland  with  its  green; 

The  olden  fortress  crumbles  on  the  steep; 

Far  off  the  dim  sea  lies  in  halcyon  sleep, 

Forgetting  all  the  slaughter  it  hath  seen. 
Here,  with  her  child  the  mother  rests  serene, 

Where  languid  Evening  folds  her  drowsy  sheep; 

Here  Peace  abides,  as  when,  in  cloisters  deep, 

The  latria  rises  round  the  Nazarene. 

Lands  where  our  rugged  forbears  first  drew  breath! 
In  this  red  slaughter,  this,  your  hour  extreme, — 
We  pray  for  peace  from  out  the  North  and  South: 

When  shall  be  sheathed  the  crimson  blade  of  Death? 
When  shall  the  lambs — as  in  the  painter's  dream — 
Nibble  the  blossoms  from  the  cannon's  mouth? 


94 


SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  INNOCENT 

FAIR  cities  tremble  as  war's  aeroplane 

Crashes  cathedrals  with  the  plunging  shell; 

Now  the  sweet  heavens  are  turned  to  skies  of  hell, 

Gomorrah-like,  with  sheets  of  fiery  rain. 

All  Europe,  agonizing,  groans  in  pain: 

The  mangled  glut  the  trenches;  where  they  fell 
No  churchyard  waits  the  dead, — no  immortelle, — 
Since  harvest-fields  are  heaped  with  patriot-slain. 

There,  where  the  battery  swerved  in  frantic  speed, 
Lay  shrieking  wounded,  mashed  by  hoof  and  wheel; 
Mercy  for  them? — Yes,  from  the  bayonet-steel! 

Death,  gloating,  hovers  o'er  the  battle  brunt; 

Slaughter  en  masse!  and  then,  the  charnel  need, — 
Long  trains  of  quick-lime  hurried  to  the  front. 


THE   GOD    OF   BATTLES 

EACH  warring  nation  importunes  Thy  throne 
With  fervent  prayer,  storming  th'  inviolate  gates; 
Lo!  at  the  shrine  the  suppliant  priest  awaits 
Thy  favor  to  his  country — his  alone. 

Only  to  Thee  the  victor  is  foreknown: 

Yet  though  the  prayer  from  Emperors,  Kings  and  States 
Rises  like  incense,  the  unheeding  Fates, 
Austere,  weave  on  with  obdurate  hearts  of  stone. 

Still  o'er  the  battle  Death's  gray  wings  descend, 
Awful  with  scarlet,  and  our  cherished  dreams 
Of  Peace  dissolve  .  .  .We  pause  in  numbed  suspense: 

Baffled  we  gaze;  we  cannot  comprehend 

A  God  who  views  the  carnage,  and  yet  seems 
The  Spirit  of  supreme  Indifference. 


96 


THE  AWAKENING 

WHAT  occult  alchemy  the  brown  Earth  shows 
As  Spring  is  coming!  and  the  Spirit  waits 
The  gorgeous  opening  of  the  ruby  gates 
That  flood  the  world  with  blossoms  like  the  rose: 

With  jonquils  rich  as  sunset  when  it  glows 
Golden  amid  dim  clouds,  for  Earth  creates 
From  lowliest  things,  Beauty  that  never  sates. 
But  flowers  her  lonely  path  where  e'er  she  goes. 

And  they  whose  torch  of  life  is  burning  low, — 
Whom  fate  has  left  along  the  desolate  road, — 
Whom  Youth  and  Love  deserted  long  ago, 

E'en  these,  as  May  returns,  lift  up  their  load 
Almost  with  hope, — ignoring  even  pain,— 
And  with  strange  faith  look  forward  once  again. 


97 


INSATIATE   MONSTER 

AGAIN  we  hear  thy  stirring  bugles  blow, 
O  god  of  Battles!    Now  the  sands  are  red 
Where  treachery  strews  the  desert  with  our  dead, 
And  dying  throats  are  parched  in  Mexico; 

Was  not  our  War — that  deep  fraternal  blow — 

Whenbrothers'  blood  for  conscience  sake  was  shed — 
WhendauntlessYouth  in  countless  thousands  bled — 
Was  not  that  crime  an  all-sufficient  Woe? 

Demon  of  battles!  is  thy  maw  not  filled 

With  old-world  slaughter,  that  thy  jaws,  accurst, 
Lust  for  our  ranks  as  tigers  roar  for  food? 

Insatiate  art  thou  till  all  men  are  killed? 

Monster,  forbear!   nor  slake  thy  crimson  thirst 
On  peaceful  fields  untainted  now  by  blood! 

June  2 8, 19 16 


98 


AGE 

O  KEEP  a  little  longer  far  away, 

Ye  hurrying  months,  onrushing,and  ye  years; 
Touch  not  our  temples  with  your  saddening  gray, 
Give  us  some  time  for  smiling  through  our  tears! 

Keep  from  our  locks  your  devastating  shears; 
And  if  we  must  forget,  ah,  well-a-day! 
Let  us  forget  old  sorrows  and  old  fears, 
And  let  our  hearts  remember  but  the  May. 

Ah,  age,  dread  age,  how  little  dost  thou  bring! 
E'en  as  far  off  thou  com'st,  thy  presence  fills 
The  soul  with  apprehension  of  thine  ills:  — 

Cold  strips  of  life  left  to  us,  lingering 

Like  those  drear  streaks  of  Winter  seen  in  Spring — 
Soiled  snowdrifts  on  the  northern  side  of  hills. 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS 

IN  leafless  woods,  when  the  first  sap  of  Spring 
Tingles  within  the  branches,  bare  and  drear, 
The  Beech  still  holds  its  foliage,  pale  and  sere, — 
The  myriad  leaves  that  all-defiant  cling; 

Days  warmer  grow;  arrive  the  song  and  wing; 
Then  on  the  Beech  th'  exultant  buds  appear, 
Forcing  the  old  leaves  off, — their  fate  is  clear; 
And  life-scarred  hearts  shrink  from  this  hinted  thing. 

The  fierce  impulsion  of  the  bud,  insooth, 

Dashes  our  dream  of  perpetuity; 

We  dreamt  we  were  immutable,  but  now 
We  feel  the  new  leaves  push  us  from  the  bough: 

Proud  in  defeat,  we  flash  these  words  at  Youth: 

"Lo!  we  salute  you,  we,  about  to  die!" 


100 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POESY 


SPIRIT  serene,  that  ever  com'st  to  me 

With  soul-refreshing,  purifying  power, 
Teach  me  the  language  I  may  speak  to  thee, 

Here  in  the  holy  hush  of  evening's  hour. 
Then  let  me  tell  how  once  I  burned  to  grace 

Thy  forehead  with  some  lyric  trophy  meet, 
And  now  regret  that  I  can  only  place 

A  garland  so  unworthy  at  thy  feet! 

From  Lyrics  by  ].  Houston  Miffiin,  1835 


102 


NOTES 

PAGE 

7.  Blank  verse  in  sonnet-form,  on  Tennyson's  death. 

8.  The  peculiar  sea-like  effect  of  rolling  slopes  of  waving  rye  has 

never,  to  my  knowledge,  been  adequately  painted.  The 
sight  is  a  most  beautiful  one,  and  I  have  captured  it  in 
verse  many  times. 

16.  From  the  Mid- West  Quarterly,  to  which  credit  is  here  given 
for  permission  to  reprint. 

1 8.       A  sonnet  with  a  refrain. 

20.       My  Peach-Orchard  in  bloom. 

22.       The  curves  of  a  stream  tend  to  conserve  its  banks. 

25.  After  much  discussion  the  Mountain  Laurel  (Kalmia  Latifolia) 
was  not  accepted  as  the  State  Flower  of  Pennsylvania. 

29.  Published  in  the  Century  Magazine  with  an  illustration  of 
Rinehart's  grave-stone,  in  Baltimore.  Credit  and  thanks 
for  permission  to  reprint  are  here  tendered  the  Century 
Company. 

36.  Written  July,  1916. 

37.  Perhaps  it  may  be  well  to  state  that  the  Author  never  visited 

Japan. 

40.       Blank  verse  in  sonnet-form. 

47.  The  Locust  Tree  has  been  ignored  in  American  painting  and 
poetry.  I  have  several  times  written  of  its  peculiar 
beauty  and  fragrance  when  in  bloom. 

67.       Stanzas  after  the  death  of  a  dear  sister. 


NOTES 

PAGE 

71.      This    poem   appeared    in    Scribner's    Magazine,   credit,  and 
thanks  for  permission  to  reprint  are  here  given. 

77.       The  blue  chickory— (Chicorium  Intybus).     Inscribed  to  the  late 
William  Uhler  Hensel. 

84.  Here  follow  a  few  sonnets  from  a  series  on  the  present  Eu 

ropean  War.  The  series  was  soon  abandoned,  as  the 
horrors  grew  too  terrible  to  contemplate. 

85.  The  Abbey  enclosing  the  tomb  of  Caedmon,    the  first  Anglo- 

Saxon  Poet,  located  near  Scarborough,  England,  was 
bombarded  by  the  Germans  during  the  present  war. 

98.       A  Sonnet  on  our  threatened  war  with  Mexico — dated  June 
28,  1916. 

Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  New  Era,  of  Lancaster, 
to  the  New  York  Evening  Mail  and  to  the  Philadel 
phia  Public  Ledger,  for  permission  to  reprint  certain  of 
these  War  Sonnets  which  appeared  in  their  columns; — and 
to  all  other  Journals  and  Magazines  which  may  have  pub 
lished  the  Author's  poems.  The  Author  begs  that  any 
neglect  of  direct  acknowledgment  will  be  attributed 
solely  to  oversight. 


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